Saturday, October 20, 2007

The new valiant.

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Cowardice is valiance?
Intimidation is excellence?
Ink sleeves libel the very selves on whose arms they dwell

Arms locked around their huddled, voiceless she-cows
Arms crossed, blocking all the heavy-handedly exaggerated evils they perceive
Their loyalty is a pecking order with no exit door but pseudo-death
A straight-edge to the throat of dissent
A family of bitter boys masked as men

A pride of lions disguised as faces friendly quips dig into your ribs remain yet unbroken smiles leaking charm disarming speak no reason for alarm
But
Defer to the drum of what bromidic rhythm's tomb
Exhumed, the rotten, bruised excuse to lose wits and misuse fists
For fun?
For pride?
For nary-you-mind blindness
Witness the noble lion feed the gazelle a steel-clawed paw prints bloody flee the scene saying:
"Don't incriminate me, or my pride will overwhelm you and beat you into the concrete"
They are the same brutal beast of irresponsible deceit
They are the putrefacted teeth of moral-imposition machines
What for themselves they reap they would have you breathe or put you to sleep saying:
"If you don't concede to me, you're a threat to my family
"My crew
"My glorious granfalloon
"My better fit to live than you entitled to hit you in the face because I don't like what you do, dude!
"And all the others look up to me if I'm true, dude!
"'Til death!"

'Til death

Is honor more important than drawing breath?
And is honor synonymous with idiotic sentiment?
Poison-free minds circumscribed by romantic designs of honor
And pride
And crew
No virtue left unskewed
No principle not fallen through
Fester the blind eyes of a stolid few

So they ruin the show
And we go home
The show goes on
But we stay home
The show must go on
Yet still we stay home

How long will we stay at home?
How long will we sit in stone?
When will we chip the lion's teeth?
When will we make them read the litany of brutality on their sleeves
And see the distinction between
Dignity... and hypocrisy?
Valiant... and violent?
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Thursday, October 18, 2007

Shit-talkin' for spare change.

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The following is a fake true story, it's not some hoary allegory
It really didn't happen, the facts presented are whack like swattin' flies
Good evening, guys!
I've devised a special surprise for your eyes and ears only
So please keep your cheers and tears sincerely phony
And please excuse any abuse of auto-plagiarism
My retro-perfectionism's a legitimately false infection
Hard to detect by present intellectual-protection technology
Honestly!, but not really
So without further willy-nilly, bullshitty or adoo-doo
I present to you and you, but not you!
Please escort that person out of the room
While I embark on a farcical yarn one-hundred-percent authentically untrue

Get it yet? I've been spittin' oxymorons for comical effect!

Gotta give credit when it's deserved: the dude has nerve
Shamblin' like a preserved corpse embalmed in Steel Reserve
Straight outta self-inflicted Third World, USA
"Hey hey hey, man, watch me do a flip!
"Now tip me or gimme a dip o'tobaccy!"
Smack-happy vegan snackin' on french fries, coke, dope and cracky
Crack open another Old Milwaukee
He's gawking, snot bubbles frosting his lip stubble
He stalks me for three blocks past meth-hovels and sloppy body-mod shops
Where hip Dicks get crooked dicks pricked
And chicks get "Gun-apostrophe-ess and Roses" tattooed on their no-nos

No one knows the latest occasion Mr. Vagrant bathed, the aroma's depraved
My nose is enslaved by a veritable buffet of indelible stenches
The acrid haze scrapes against my gentle senses
The putrescence is omnipresent
Fresh air's a fuckin' legend, bereft of breath, my chest compresses
My next step is a stumble, my carcass crumbles, I fumble my brain-ball
AWOL: dereliction of psyche

The derelict trips up behind me, tumbles right on top of me
He's got me where he wants me as he flaunts his lack of hygiene
Usin' a non-existent thing as a means of coercion
As he asserts his odor I exert myself to keep from purgin'
The miasma's burnin' a hole in my pocket, my wallet's absconded
I don't even try to stop it 'cause I'm tryin' not to vomit
I say, "Take the money, all of it, then take a bath or somethin'!"
He says, "I'll just take the twenty since you're twenty kinds o'nothin!
"I'm an institution, stupid, it's useless to dismiss me
"'Cause I'm the Keystone-swillin' corner-stone of urban modernity!
"I'll be hauntin' every corner from here to eternity
"'Cause I'm ubiquitous like syphilis in college fraternities!
"You're my customer for life, and I can smell that you're scared o'me
"'Cause you've been made my latest victim of subjectional charity!"

And as he wanders off he hollars back his paltry, parting words:
"Peace, brah, I'll be chillaxin' at the hacky-sad-sack drum-circle-jerk!"
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Friday, October 5, 2007

Filling an ephemeral position.

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An accelerated, centipedal engineer trampled something I cannot identify; the scrotum arrived before the penis. As strangely as darkness fell, its antennae dangled above the sage-flanked sauna, annotating every percussive, little contact made against Om-nilna's sweaty awareness. Om-nilna rippled and tesselated between an enormous, pulsating tuffet and that great, dripping, scrutinizing overseer.

Without realizing it, Om-nilna extended her dehydrated labialingua some thirty feet into the night abyss and whispered her mounting anxiety regarding carnal maneuvers with a cushioned stool. Tochtli's ghost materialized and firmly ejaculated, "At least it's comfortable to sit on it. Just keep sitting on it for a while. Eventually you can step on it and reach for something a bit more accessible."

Om-nilna's conscience bubbled and hissed as the gentle upholstery of her seat draped across her bosom and wrinkled around her pelvis. If I am to continue sitting on this, she decided, morally I cannot permit it to fuck me. Hallucination weakly transitioned to actuality; Tochtli absconded to its steaming carcass on the asphalt.

"Oh, I can't take it anymore!" she groaned, and her vulva vomited my interpretation of us.

We slept straddling seventy stranded centimeters.

(Written 6/16/06; edited 10/5/07.)
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Thursday, October 4, 2007

An awkward moment.

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As you enter the kitchen, an acrid haze scrapes against your gentle senses. You notice a man slumped awkwardly in an unsteady chair beside an ordinary table. With his every labored breath, his seat wobbles, groans and threatens to discard his deathly weight. It has been quite some time since this man acquiesced to an extreme, drunken semi-coma, and he is not dreaming. A dying cigarette is crawling across the floor, burrowing a tiny, charred-carpet grave beside the right pedal of the somnolent.

A diminutive grey-and-white manx with nervous hands is resting on the table. Its lifeless, ochreous eyes survey the drunk's unshaven, sleep-melted face as its impatient fingers tap, knock and scratch a frustratingly incoherent rhythm on the vinyl table-cloth. Every five measures (ha!) it pauses to fail to clean the mold from its back. The cat attempts several distinct mewling sounds before iterating for the two-thousand-one-hundred-and-eighty-eighth time in the voice of colliding automobiles.

"Do you recall the supper dish you placed in a hot pan on the stove-top for the love of god seven hours ago?"

A chair leg splinters and snaps; the man topples onto the smoldering tobaccorpse, snorts noisily, moans painfully upon the reception of a significantly minuscule burn and mutters the name of a god he has never met, to which the pig stutteringly replies, "It is has since become scorched."

You reckon it is time for you to retire.

(Written 4/17/05; edited 10/4/07.)
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